Chapter XIII: Sandown Grand Military

"Heron," cried Gay, waving a letter at him, across the breakfast table one morning early in March, "I've got an invitation for you! Effie and Tom Bulteel are taking their coach down to Sandown to-day, and they want us to go with them. I heard all about it the other night," she confided laughingly, "but I knew if I told you of the treat that was in store, you'd plead an engagement, or shuffle out of it somehow, and I _do_ so want you to come! A day in the open will do you no end of good, and you'll get a ripping lunch (the Professor's face brightened a little), though you'll have to do without your afternoon nap, you know, unless you get inside the coach."

The Professor moved uneasily in his chair.

"Why do you drag me into all these things?" he asked pathetically. "You know how I detest society, and you promised to leave me in peace if I went to the dance with you."

"Yes, I know," Gay agreed, "but Effie made quite a point of your coming to-day; you--you amuse her so, you know."

The Professor did not appear struck with this form of flattery, and half suspected that it was a plot between Gay and Mrs. Bulteel to make him appear to throw a mantle of respectability over his sister's racing divagations. Yet he had a sneaking desire to see for himself what there was in racing to make so many empty-headed people happy, and when he feebly urged that he had got nothing to wear, she knew that the game was won.

"Oh, yes, you have," she replied promptly, "that pepper and salt suit of yours--you know, the one you wear on your holidays. It's quite respectable--quite sporting-looking, in fact--and you can wear your 'Trilby' hat. (She exploded inwardly.) Altogether your rig-out's splendid, and I shouldn't wonder if people took you for a trainer!"

Frank Lawless looked offended, and made another attempt to escape.

"I shall be entirely out of it," he said. "There is much to do in there"--he nodded towards the distant laboratory. "Can't you make some excuse for me?"

"No, I can't," the girl answered firmly. "You're very seldom seen anywhere with me, you know, Frank, and people must wonder whether my brother is not a myth. Once you start, you're sure to enjoy yourself, and perhaps there'll be a job for you if one of the soldier-jockeys comes to the ground."

But even the prospect of a "case" did not console the Professor.

"I hope not," he said gravely; "you shouldn't joke about such things, Gay," and he shook his head reprovingly.

"Truly, I hope it won't be Chris," the girl answered, drumming her fingers on the table, and looking thoughtful. "He's riding in the Gold Cup, you know--a horse he trained himself."

"Well," said the Professor with a deep sigh, "as it appears to be my duty, I'll come. I hope they won't talk horses to me, though," looking up anxiously.

"If they do, agree with everything they say," Gay instructed him, "because you don't know enough to contradict, do you?"

"I have my own ideas," he answered complacently, while Gay devoutly hoped he would give utterance to none of them, or she foresaw a rude awakening before him.

"We must leave here by eleven for Eaton Square," she said, "so toddle upstairs in half-an-hour, and change your clothes. I'll put everything out for you, including a pair of race-glasses, so you'll _look_ the part, at any rate, even if you don't feel it."

When the Professor reappeared again, after an absence of an hour, he looked very nice and archaic, as Gay told him, though by no means happy.

"I am cold," he announced (and indeed his own skin was always his first consideration), looking down at his well-worn suit; "these are summer clothes, you know."

"It's a glorious day," Gay informed him; "but of course you'll want a top-coat. It'll be cold driving back, I expect."

When they arrived in Eaton Square, the Professor was hoisted on to the coach where he held on with both hands, and otherwise delighted Effie during the drive. His conversation was of a spasmodic character, interrupted by backward glances over his shoulder whenever a corner was turned, and he heaved an audible sigh of relief when the coach drew up in the enclosure.

Effie surveyed the scene with approval. Her sympathies were not particularly with the racing, indeed she only regarded it as a necessary evil connected with bringing a crowd of people together--and this was a very smart crowd certainly.

She focussed her glasses on the moving throng in the members' enclosure, open for this meeting only, to non-subscribers in the way of soldiers, and their wives and sweethearts, and here and there she recognised someone she knew.

The Professor was cautioned on all sides to take care of himself, but Gay took possession of him, and hurried him off to the paddock to tout the horses for the first race. There were several walking round in a circle on the crest of the hill, and while Gay stood as close to them as she could get, checking the numbers on the lads' arm-badge with her card, her brother kept at a more than respectful distance. Presently a lad walking a horse up behind him, nearly frightened him out of his wits with a business-like "By y'r leave, please," and he executed a wild leap to safety, to the intense amusement of the onlookers.

Catching Gay's eye, he scuttled over to her, and tried to get her away from the charmed circle, prophesying hysterically a kick from one of the horses.

"Don't be absurd, Frank," she replied, watching with interest each one as it passed; "horses can't kick when they're walking. They're not cows."

The Professor remained unconvinced, however, and was greatly relieved when Gay moved off in the direction of the weighing-room to see the numbers and jockeys, but the frame with the mixture of figures and names conveyed nothing to his mind.

"Halloa! Chris rides No. 9 in this," Gay exclaimed, "let's see what it is. Here we are--Mr. M'Nab's Irish Knight, four-year-old, 10st. 7lb. I wish we could find Chris; it may be a good thing--what he calls a 'pinch.'"

At that moment Chris Hannen came out of the weighing-room. A thick frieze overcoat, cut to the knee, disclosed a thin kid workman-like pair of boots, he wore a white scarf round his throat, while his head was surmounted with a dark blue racing-cap. He was busy chatting with the owner of Irish Knight, but as he passed through the gate into the paddock, his quick eye noticed Gay, while a second astonished glance discovered the Professor.

He at once left his companion, and came quickly towards them.

"How are you, Gay?" he cried eagerly. "Morning, Professor! Lovely day for jumping, isn't it? Hope you won't be wanted" (the Professor shuddered). "Excuse my apparent rudeness in not taking off my cap, Gay, but I've been tied into it."

Gay thought, with a pang, how drawn he looked, "but how workman-like!" a moment after.

"You didn't tell me you had two rides to-day," Gay said, as the three walked off to look at the horse.

"No," Chris replied, as they turned down the hill on the left to the saddling-stalls. "I didn't know myself till just now. M'Nab couldn't do the weight himself, so he asked me."

"And is it a jewelled-in-every-hole, compensated-balance 'pinch,' Chris?" Gay asked, laughing, as she stood by watching the trainer place the tackle on Irish Knight.

"I'm afraid not, though I've got more than an outside chance. I can't advise you to gamble heavily on this occasion, but perhaps a trifle each way will show a profit. You ought to get ten to one in this field."

The horse was led out, and Chris took off his coat, and handed it to the lad. His owner, looking very disappointed at not having the ride himself, saw Chris chucked up, then walked beside him to the plantation avenue leading to the course. As they disappeared, with a wave of the hand from Chris, Gay turned to her brother, and cried enthusiastically:

"Doesn't Chris look ripping on a horse? And can't he ride, too, just! Let's get on the stand and watch the race, and I _must_ have half-a-sovereign even, and place on him for luck."

With one of the men on the rails she placed her wager, getting eight's and even money for a place, then she and the bewildered and annoyed Professor mounted the stand, to watch the horses go down. There were nine runners, all soldier-ridden, a well-known amateur who rode a lot in Ireland being up on the favourite.

They all got safely over the first two fences, and as they galloped past the enclosure, Gay pointed out Chris's scarlet jacket and blue cap, lying fourth, to her brother.

Each time the horses jumped, he gave a convulsive little leap into the air himself, screwing his eyes up painfully, and only half looking at the fences.

"Terribly dangerous!" he muttered. "If one of those fellows fell off, he must be killed."

"Stuff!" was Gay's rejoinder. "Men who play this game are not so soft and brittle as you, old boy. There they are again," pointing to the left as the horses made the bottom turn. They were all on their legs still, and as the Professor fumbled with the glasses, he devoutly hoped they would remain so. For a surgeon he was a remarkably nervous man, though he could operate with skill and precision, with no thought but for the work in hand. But he could not look at an accident, or anticipate one, without infinitely more suffering--mentally--than the actual victim, and Gay wondered what he would do if, as sometimes happened, half-a-dozen men were all on the ground together ... which was precisely what happened, and it did not need the terrified squeal beside her to inform Gay, that under a _mêlée_ of men and horses, had disappeared a certain scarlet jacket and blue cap.

If Gay had ever doubted which it was of the two men laying such close siege to her, she loved, she had no doubt at all when, through her glasses, she saw a small patch of colour lying perfectly still, and in the same moment discovered that the Professor had vanished.

If terror had wrung from him that involuntary squeal, all his professional instincts--and they were the keenest he possessed--were instantly aroused by a "case," and he precipitated himself from the stand with a rapidity that left Gay far behind, and never stopped running till he had reached Chris. No other doctor had yet put in an appearance, and with quick, clever fingers the Professor made a cursory examination, and issued his orders rapidly and to the point, here was the cool, astute surgeon, recognised as such and instantly obeyed, as he superintended Chris's removal. The list of injuries when tabulated proved a heavy one. There was no fracture of the skull, but severe concussion of the brain, a collar bone and three ribs broken, also a hip put out, but no internal injuries as far as could be ascertained. Epsom was nearer than town, and the Professor decided to take Chris straight home in an ambulance, and remain the night with him, afterwards placing him in charge of a local doctor, if no complications ensued.

This he presently hurriedly explained to Gay, who, though deathly white, was quite composed; her spirits rose even at the report, for though Chris had had few worse "outings" than this one, at least he was alive.

"No doubt Mrs. Bulteel will look after you," added the Professor, as he rushed away, and Effie did, knowing well enough that if Chris Hannen had lost his race, and almost his life that day, he had beyond all question only established more firmly his claim on Gay's heart.